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by lemonsharks



Series: Every Terrible, Necessary Choice [10]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Post-Canon, fluff without angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 21:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4640244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonsharks/pseuds/lemonsharks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mercy Trevelyan has never met a scenic vista she didn't want to climb. Josephine Montilyet has not climbed <em>anything</em> since she was <em>twelve</em>. </p><p>(Introverted outdoors-loving girlfriend gets extroverted indoors-loving girlfriend to go hiking with her.)</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> For the flowers & prompts meme - sweet pea, delicate pleasures

People gathered on the roadside, men and women she had helped, or whom the _Inquisition_ had helped, and Mercy slowed and spoke with every one, gave her gratitude for _their_ support, blessed their children and wished she had someone to ask forgiveness for that lie. Mercy’s left hand itched from everyone who had touched the anchor and all the superstition rising up around her.

It was exhausting: the overland trip from Skyhold into Ferelden, but they’d won Celene’s unwavering support and now they must go and do the same with Anora.

“We could have come by ship, you know,” Josephine said, sounding a little smug. She was dust-covered, the creases long worn out of her riding clothes.

“And there’s more to _Ferelden_ than _Denerim_ ,” she replied. Then, “But I would have preferred the ship, at this rate. We could pick and choose where we stopped.”

“Westport, Highever Harbor, and Amaranthine. Those three would have covered every political faction we will meet in the capitol.”

  
  


Caer Bronach, at least, met them _without_ fanfare and _with_ the familiarity of those used to frequent visits in more dire circumstances.

“We’re staying here for at _least_ a week,” Mercy said, handing her mount over to an ostler. “And before anyone even asks, if the judge and the new mayor want my benediction, they can have it on the way back.”

They met with Charter over bread and roasted mutton, and the elven woman turned down the offer to accompany them back to Skyhold as spymaster. Told them she rather preferred _doing_ things to hearing about them second hand, and that they had had no Venatori in the area for months now. No bandits, either, since they’d begun rebuilding the fort in the Black Fens. They’d need to tour the place before they left—not Charter’s business, she told them, but a fair warning. Lots of rock and dust and very little of actual interest to be had, there.

  
  


Josephine dropped her traveling cloak in a heap on the floor and flopped face-down on the bed in their quarters. “I am going to sleep for _three days_. ”

Her voice was muffled by the pillow.

Mercy pulled her own boots off, stripped out of her mail and stretched until her spine cracked. She pulled off Josephine’s shoes next—too pretty and too pointy in the toe to be called _serviceable_ —and was rewarded with a contented little sigh. She sat, and a floundering hand found and grasped her sleeve, pulling her fully down onto the bed. All the sounds outside their room were distant ones, distorted but even, doors and voices and the soldiers’ very last drills of the day. Mercy let her eyes close for a moment in warm and quiet; only Josephine playing idly with her shirt cuff kept her awake.

“I want to show you something,” she murmured, shifting so she lay on her side. “Before we leave. It’s a hike but it’s worth it—and I’ve only ever been up here _before_ we closed the rift under the lake…”

Josephine rose to her elbows, undoing a row of buttons as she went. She paused, considering.

 _So it’s a yes-and_ , Mercy thought, grinning. The _yes_ was the part that mattered, and the basket of bread and cheese and strawberries she was commandeering before they left. She raised her eyebrows and motioned for Josephine to speak.

“Could I convince you to tour the Fens without me tomorrow? There is much to do here and—”

Mercy darted in, quick as knives, and kissed her—but after the first instant she went languid, even sloppy, trailing off into a soft peck at the corner of her mouth.

“Wear boots,” she said. “Wear boots with climbers’ spikes.”

  
  


She couldn’t find the trail. She couldn’t find the trail but Mercy Trevelyan had grown up scrambling over cliffs and digging her own handholds while a net bag heavy with stones and shells dug into her shoulder and twisted around her neck.

There had _been_ a trail. No matter. She was a girl born of gray rocky coastlines and sand like crumbling bricks of sugar and she could _improvise_ when and where it came to a place with unorthodox routes and scraped-up knees.

“Did ever do any climbing when you were a child?” she asked, scanning the mountain for a second-best way up.

“Only when I was supposed to be keeping my brothers out of trouble. Yvette was always a force unto herself, but she was more likely to try ‘improving’ family heirlooms than chasing snakes up trees.”

“ _You_ chased snakes up trees?”

“I chased _brothers_ up trees. It was all very undignified.”

“Well then,” Mercy said. “I’ll handle our lunch. Just…follow me up and try not to look down.”

  
  


Crestwood was a golden place, and as she’d expected the rickety old table and chairs were still on the little outcropping.

Mercy’s hair was plastered to her head with sweat, and Josephine’s had come halfway down from a trip through a scraggly hedge, but she was laughing when she finally sat and started spreading out the food. The sun hung high over head, one moon still huge and defiant on the horizon, and nothing was trying to kill her.

She leaned back and watched the shadows cast by the sparse clouds above them, drifting and lazy. The fields below were so green they hurt to look at, save the one stretch of land planted over in sunflowers with their drooping, plate-sized yellow blooms. Mercy wished she were an artist, as she often had: that she could take pigment and water and brush and remake what she saw to have later on. To share with those who couldn’t be here now.

Josephine lay her hands on Mercy’s shoulders, and she looked up.

“This is so much lovelier than I could have imagined,” Mercy said with a sigh.

Josephine kissed her forehead once, pulled away, and took her seat. She said, “You were right. It was worth the difficulty of getting up here, but not for the view.”

“Oh? Then for what?”

“For seeing you so happy.”


End file.
